


Laying Siege

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: BDSM, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-14
Updated: 2004-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 05:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lex still hasn't said a thing." Control issues collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying Siege

## Laying Siege

by Morgan Slightlights

<http://slightlights.livejournal.com/>

* * *

Lex still hasn't said a thing. 

And sprawled on your back in a tangle of cotton and cashmere, hands bound over your head in a way it's actual work to keep from breaking... this isn't the best time to ask: _has_ he noticed how easily you can lift him, the way you don't mark, the way he can pound hard into your throat and make you take it, want it, demand it? 

Does he remember, after all? 

You can't quite let yourself relax into those cushioned cuffs; the leather creaks sometimes, a warning you count on, but you can't trust it to hold. Not against you. Not when he's licking his way down your ribs and deep into your abs, that clever tongue gutting you of breath, so you arch and hiss and gulp for more air, more, just so you can let it out in a moan. 

But you can't let go. 

Not even when he's drawing plans of attack along your skin, charted in ink made invisible as he breathes each slow, low lick away. Not even when you push back against him just a little, and then a little more, cock catching and then slipping along that pale skin, leaving your own wet tracery along his throat. Not even when his hands press your thighs wider, opening you that much more to him-- _he_ ' _d said he could heal_ \-- 

But you can't. Can't let yourself believe he survived what you left him to and what you tried to bring him back from. But he's here, and if he'd lied about not remembering more than his father, his father and Edge... he wouldn't be here, would he? He's always been breakable, but he got more brittle with every bride and then after the island he stopped asking altogether, or maybe it was hoping, you're not sure, and after Belle Reve... You wouldn't need a Porsche to do it, or a basketball, or Lana-Desiree-Jessie-Kyla-- 

_Lex_!-- 

And as the wet heat of his mouth pulls off, by the way he's now grinning you _had_ yelped that out loud, maybe loud enough for his bodyguards to overhear--but when you briefly refocus, you find them on the other side of the mansion. Right where they're supposed to be. 

Good thing, too, because with him looking that way at you, you know you're going to be making a lot more noises than that tonight. Sharp teeth, sharper eyes--"Better," he says like a promise, a pact, and you swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat, the deepened, hungry ache of your cock. If you look just right, you can see your reflection in his eyes, if not precisely what he sees in you: the way he's stretched you out under the lamplight, the way light becomes darkness across your muscles as you twist within your bonds, just a little, just enough to hear his breathing quicken. 

But he's waiting, damn it, hunkered down with a possessive hand still high on your thigh, as if he could make you both wait all night. 

You'll see about that. You move again, just enough to pretend it's accidental, just enough to invite his claiming further territory--but his hand tightens around your leg rather than riding further up, and he laughs, low, his amusement rolling over you like velvet, the heavy thick-napped stuff of the blanket he keeps in your favorite Ferrari. 

As much as he likes control, he likes you losing it even more. 

And it would be so easy to let go. 

To stop thinking, to claim him, deep as you desperately want to go. It wouldn't take a ring with a red stone to do it, not anymore. 

It's been long enough, months now, that shyness isn't good enough for why you mostly won't meet his eyes. For why you keep yours clamped shut when you come, so you're the only one who'll feel that flash of burning light. It's not that you haven't practiced, against scarecrows and bullets and chains, but Lex is no straw man, and if you hurt him this way too--the way you'd done the boys in the alleys of Metropolis, burned them all up-- 

"Stop that," he says, short and maybe a little worried, and it's just then that you can feel your shoulders trembling with want and fear and what you vowed never to do again; and he walks his hands up your body to touch them, every step relief, as if you were one of those fancy locks that opened only to his imprint, the kind that you only know how to break. And when he's leaning along you, softer but still hard where you wilted, you're ashamed but he doesn't seem to mind; you can feel his breathing slowing, deliberately, and after a little while yours begins to slow with it. It hasn't... it hasn't been this bad for a while. Lex doesn't reach to loosen the cuffs; by now, he knows better. 

What he does is talk, quietly, one hand slid up to your jaw and into your hair, and if he marks your pulse along the way, it's not so obvious that you have to know. He tells you that he's got you, that you're safe--that _he_ ' _s_ safe--only it's not in those words at all. If you listen hard, you can piece together words of chemistry and wars and half-remembered tales; but it's his voice, it strokes along your skin as if you could feel him half the world away. You can feel him, and feel him drinking you in, warmer than the parted sea of the blankets about you both, enough almost that you could lose yourself in this alone. 

You used to keep more distance. Now, even when he's just talking on the cell to his board, maybe especially when he doesn't want you to hear, it draws your attention like the magnetic fields you can feel when you're running; and when he's talking to you, intent on you, putting aside that probing curiosity to take in everything you can give--in bed or out of it--you're sure there's nothing like it on any world. 

Slowly your muscles relax, and gradually the rest of you, and you can lift your head up to his, your mouth to his, and there's nothing like riverwater or recrimination there. You dare to look, and his eyes are so dilated they may as well be black, and you kiss him again. Off-center on purpose, the way you had the first time accidentally, the night his father died. When you pulled him back. 

You feel safest when he tops you, when he takes you in your own bed, against the glass of his desk, once over Lana's mother's-and-not-her-father's grave. Sometimes you think he wants to give it up, too, but you don't know if you can take it. You've dreamed of seeing his eyes, all those times when you can't let yourself look. You've dreamed of confessing, of letting the truth out, and if anyone can help you, Lex can; he's a scientist as well as a businessman and he knows how things work. _But this way he'll stay, this way you can try to make it up to him..._

And his hand tightens in your hair as he straightens up, and it might be painful if you were anyone else, the way he's holding you just short of meeting his mouth again. But you deserve it, the distance. You could circumvent it, take control and take him, just a little upward twist that you shouldn't be able to get away with at this angle, and the mere thought of it starts to get you hard again. You've dared such things before, more often than you'd like to admit, but only when also doing your best to distract him. And this time, he's watching you. This close, it takes a special sort of focus to see him looking at you as if he's trying to see you past your bones, map your very thoughts in dimensional relief the way he'd mapped the caves down to the paintings on the walls. 

He has to know. 

He wouldn't be surprised if you broke, broke those bonds in a snap of distressed leather, he wouldn't... 

...stop. Would he? 

You can't risk it. 

Can't lose him. 

You look at him while you still can, struggling to get past sheer intensity to the face everyone else sees, the face he'll someday flaunt before the world--but in a Presidency you won't be part of. While you've memorized him in sleep, remarkable as his body is, the way he animates it is nothing you can ever capture--except in nightmares of machine guns fitted with the new Kryptonite bullets. And you try to let your eyes say everything you don't dare put into words, the way you want him, the way you want him to... not to... 

He's withdrawing back between your knees, gone hieratic and still, a fine slick of sweat all that's clothing fragile skin and bone. He's watching you. 

But you can't speak, you need him to survive, you couldn't bear to think he could and have him prove you wrong. 

So you arch your back, inch higher on the bed to give yourselves some slack ( _please let it be enough_ , _please_ ) and maybe he thinks it's just to get your cock closer to that scarred, unsmiling mouth--the mouth you've seen him use to take people _apart_ \--and maybe he wouldn't be wrong. 

He's still for a moment more, a moment that's long even for humans; and then you think you hear him whisper, "Next time," as he relents, recedes back to take you up again, pushing you but not further than you both know how to go ( _far enough to break you both_ ). Not yet. But his _next time_ is a pact and a promise, and his hands are sedition itself; and then you thrust thought away as his teeth ravage down the line of your hip, into the coarser hair there, so close, so close, you don't recognize the sound you make--only to have his tongue wrap around your balls, so _close_ and likely you're invulnerable there too but your body doesn't know it, his breath hot now on the underside of your cock, you'd tell him anything if only he'd ask, but he never does--his mouth closes and strokes and _knows_ just the way you've realized you like it-- 

You can feel yourself trembling, fire at the edges of your vision, and you slam your eyes shut--you're burning now, immolated--Lex, _Lex_ \-- 

And you give it up to him, every other way you can. 

* * *

Special thanks go to Seren for valiantly examining it at different stages, for music recs, and for missing sleep; Verdant for trying SV for me; Anatsuno for checking the cuffs; and Hope for that final Midwestern gloss. Also, to the SV Fan Fiction Resources people: you make life a lot easier. Thank you. 


End file.
